


The Great American Baking Show

by Anonymous



Category: Psych
Genre: Case Fic, Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 05:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10802265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Shawn enlists Lassiter's help on a case. A baking competition's producer has been receiving threatening letters, but the evidence is shakier than a wobbly custard tart.





	The Great American Baking Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burglebezzlement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/gifts).



The sun was inching below the horizon, dark shadows growing against the golden-red light as the wind started to pick up. Shawn tightened his grip on his pineapple popsicle as he squinted up at the apartment building before him, then back at the street.

He'd wait just a little longer, he thought, before he resorted to breaking in. Gus always made a fuss but didn't really mind, but for someone like Lassiter who had a dozen guns hidden in various rooms - well, Shawn was hoping not to get shot today.

He licked his lips, tasting sugar, and bit off a mouthful of popsicle ice. It was down to the last drippy dregs, his fingers sticky and slightly yellow, and when Shawn spotted the car coming around the corner he bit off the rest, crunching sharp ice between his teeth and licking his hands mostly clean.

Lassiter parked his car, exited it, and checked his mailbox. Shawn hung back, leaning against the wall to the apartment complex, and he knew when Lassiter spotted him; he stiffened, his hand going automatically to his gun before he registered who it was. When he approached, Shawn could see his hair stuck to his forehead, the sweat gathering at his temples, the stress in the clench of his fingers in his palms. "Spencer," he said, "what are you doing here?"

"Well," Shawn said, pulling himself away from the cool concrete, "I have a case for you."

Lassiter stared at him blankly for a moment, then scoffed and reached for his keys. "I'm a detective, Spencer. I have cases."

"Sure," Shawn said, "but I have one that needs your very special skill set. Lassie, you're my only hope."

He said the last with a dramatic flourish that was all but lost on Lassiter, judging by his expression. "Spencer," Lassiter said warningly, and Shawn leant forward, into his space.

"It's a secret," he whispered loudly, and pulled back when Lassiter looked about ready to bite his nose off. "Think of it as... a favor. We'll be even for the Drimmer thing."

"I saved your goddamned life there, Spencer," Lassiter said. "I don't owe you a thing."

"Then the - then I'll owe you," Shawn said, catching Lassiter's sleeve when he reached back for the door. "C'mon, one favor, anything you want." He slid innuendo into his voice, batted his eyelashes. "Please?"

Lassiter let out a sound near to a growl and ripped his arm away. "If this is some psychic bullshit of yours - "

"Would I lie to you with this face?" Shawn said, grinning, and let his smile fall somewhat as Lassiter looked unmoved. "Yes, alright? I really do need your help."

Lassiter looked at him for a moment longer, then exhaled angrily and slid his keys in the door. "Come on, then," he said grudgingly, and held open the door. "If you're lying - "

"Don't be so serious, Lassieface," Shawn said easily, slipping past him into the air-conditioned hall. "I'll tell you all about it."

Lassiter's apartment was just where Shawn remembered it, and he covered a yawn with his hand as he lounged against the wall. Lassiter gave him another suspicious look as he unlocked his door and Shawn let himself inside, a quick glance taking in all the details before he flopped bonelessly onto the couch.

"You haven't redecorated at all," he said, squinting up at the ceiling. "Except for that bowl of fruit. What, no pineapples? It's summer!"

"What are you after, Spencer?" Lassiter slipped off his jacket, hanging it on a coat-hook; his white shirt was stuck to his skin. "This better be good."

"So," Shawn said, "it all started when this guy came to the Psych office..."

 

They'd never be the best of friends, but it was easier, lately. Lassiter still narrowed his eyes when Shawn kicked his feet on his desk, growled, low and nearly subvocal when Shawn leant forward, too far into his space, but the baseline undercurrent of suspicion had faded to something that was more straight-up annoyance. The tips of Lassiter's went red and he looked anywhere but Shawn's face when he pressed himself close in a psychic vision, and Shawn saw it all, tucked everything away in a case file in his head.

The Annual SBPD Cake Day (as Shawn had dubbed it, loudly and with fervor) had started three years ago, when Shawn had purchased a whole bucket of mini-muffins and convinced some of the more malleable detectives into contributing to make it an actual event. That it happened to fall coincidentally close to Shawn's birthday was beside the point. Gus had been equal parts pleased and suspicious: "I'm not going to bake anything else for you, Shawn."

"I can bake things!" Shawn protested, and Gus raised his eyebrows in a manner that said exactly what he thought of that.

"Well," Juliet said, holding a jar full of slightly misshapen but entirely delicious cookies, "I thought it was a great idea, Shawn."

And, to Shawn's delight, it caught on; the next year had even more delicious baked goods, the third, more than two dozen of the absolute best cupcakes Shawn had eaten in his entire life. He'd managed to fit two in his pockets before Gus had tried to drag him away, tasted one, and then fallen into stuffing Shawn's pockets, too; by the time he escaped the rush he found himself next to Lassiter, watching the inorderly commotion with a gimlet eye.

"None for you?" Shawn asked, through a mouthful, and Lassiter transferred his glare to Shawn as he offered up one, slightly squashed and half-eaten. "No?" He shrugged and stuffed the rest into his mouth, moaning rapturously with delight, deliberately overdone.

"Would you stop that, Spencer," Lassiter grumbled, but he looked hot under the collar and even more so when Shawn leant in.

"Bet you there'll be a bet on who made them by the end of the day."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed. "So?"

Shawn let his mouth quirk as he raised his eyebrows and wiggled his fingers. "Psychic, remember?" he said, his voice light. "You put in with me, and we'll both make a pretty dollar."

"It's a penny," Lassiter said, sounding irritated. "And you can't know who it is."

Shawn gave Lassiter a deliberate lingering once-over, though he'd already noticed the slight edge of blue food coloring under his fingernails, the faint remnants of flour on the cuffs of his shirt's sleeves. "Hm," Shawn said, and stuck out his hand, palm hovering over Lassiter's chest. "I'm sensing... it's someone tall, ruggedly handsome, a really enviable amount of chest hair, a little too quick to go for his gun - "

Lassiter hissed a breath through his teeth as he stopped reaching for a weapon, his hand closing tight enough to bruise on Shawn's arm. He dragged them away, behind a nearby tree. "What the hell do you want, Spencer?"

"Hey," Shawn said, hands raised defensively, "I just thought, I'll put your name in - "

"No one can know," Lassiter said, his hands going to Shawn's collar, and Shawn backed up until his foot hit a tree root as Lassiter pressed forward. "No one. You understand?"

"Uh," Shawn said, admittedly distracted by the unholy gleam in his striking blue eyes, "yes?"

Lassiter studied him for a long moment. Shawn wet his lips and Lassiter's gaze followed the movement before he quickly stepped back, letting go of Shawn like he'd been burned. "Good," he said, and cleared his throat. Shawn peered at him through his eyelashes.

"I'm willing to be bribed - "

"You," Lassiter said, "won't tell anyone."

"Not even one cupcake?" Shawn wheedled. "Ooh, or pineapple upside-down cake - "

Lassiter was already starting away, and Shawn raced to catch up with him; he opened his mouth and closed it again when Lassiter stalked off and Gus sidled close, a cupcake in hand.

"What's gotten into him?" Gus asked, and gave Shawn a narrow look. "You didn't - "

"No," Shawn sighed. "More's the pity." He snatched the half-eaten cake from Gus's hand and shook his head as he watched Lassiter go. Gus pinched him and Shawn yelped as Gus grabbed the cupcake back, shoving it in his mouth all at once. "You ate half of it already!" Shawn protested. 

Gus stared him down as he chewed and swallowed, and then Shawn had to slap his hands away from his cupcake-filled pockets.

 

"This," Lassiter said grimly, "does not look like a baking competition."

Shawn glanced around the hotel room, wrinkling his nose. It was shabby, smelled a bit like wet dog and old cigarettes, and the mini-fridge had a depressing collection of three bottles of water and a single energy drink. The air-conditioner was rattling, but it barely shifted a breeze through the room, oppressively warm.

The bed was a double. Lassiter seemed to be avoiding looking at it at all costs. Shawn flopped down on the scratchy bedspread, stretching his arms wide. "Yeah, exactly."

Lassiter, checking his suitcase, looked up. "You think it's a scam?"

Shawn waved a hand, absently, eyes fixed on the tiny monitoring camera in the corner of the ceiling. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I have no idea. Doesn't it feel a bit Big Brother to you?"

Lassiter's expression was blank, and Shawn rolled his eyes and studied the ceiling, the tiny bumps and whorls as Lassiter stood and cracked the window. One side was painted shut, the other rusted, but he managed to open it enough for a tiny fraction of the cooler night air. Shawn exhaled, rolling over, and staggered to his feet.

"Let's go for a walk," he said, "it's disgusting in here."

"Spencer, I need to - "

Shawn grabbed Lassiter's arm and bodily hauled him out the door, only just remembering to pick up the keys as he closed it behind them. "What," Lassiter said warningly, and Shawn glanced down the hallway - empty - and tried not to sigh.

"There are cameras in there," Shawn said, "and I want to know why."

"You said they weren't expecting you to come with me," Lassiter said slowly. Shawn nodded, remembering the look on the producer's face: startlement fading to a disinterested smile when Shawn suggested he find someone who could participate. _They'll have to be up to standard,_ he'd said, and Shawn had no illusions as to what he thought would happen.

Lassiter, of course, was a game changer, and Shawn grinned at him, sly.

"Which means," Shawn said with a flourish, "they wanted to stick me in with someone else. We just need to find out who."

"What," Lassiter said dryly, "actual investigation? What happened to your psychic intuition?"

"Sometimes it needs some help. Location. Focus. The spirits are quiet here." Shawn squinted thoughtfully down the hallway and back, then pointed. "But they're saying the main office is this way."

"You mean," Lassiter said, "the sign right behind you says - "

"The spirits, Lassie!" Shawn cried, and staggered, arms outstretched, down the hall.

The hotel was barely a step away from a motel, peeling wallpaper and stifling air, and when they got to the front desk Shawn wasn't at all surprised to see it unmanned. The tiny portable air conditioner next to the desk was running full-speed. He sat down, clicked into their database, and skimmed over the names before Lassiter rounded the corner, opened his mouth and closed it in disbelief.

Shawn spun around in the chair just to be obnoxious and flipped open the folder on the desk. There was nothing really interesting there, no handy contracts or anything, but Lassiter's jaw was working as though he was trying his hardest not to shout. "Done," Shawn announced, and picked himself up just in time for the receptionist's exit out of the nearby office.

"...Can I help you?" she said, eyes slightly wide. 

"Yes," Shawn said, and rested his hands on the desk. "Is there any way I can get one of these?"

"The..."

"Air conditioner," Shawn said. "Ours doesn't work. Really doesn't work. And, you know, not that I mind getting hot and heavy down with my darling - "

"I - I'll see what I can do," she said quickly, nervously glancing between Shawn and the no-doubt-frothing Lassiter behind him. "I, um, was that all?"

"No," Shawn said, "I'd also like a restock of the minibar, do you know if it's charged to us or the room? And do you have any of those tiny packets of pretzels? I feel like we should have those. Don't you think we should have those, Carlton?" Shawn looked over his shoulder to Lassiter's irritated eyebrows and fluttered his eyelashes. "They just really set the mood, you know?"

"I..." She looked overwhelmed, but navigated the old-fashioned computer system with ease; Shawn caught a glimpse of the page and grinned. "The minibar is charged to your room," she said, "and - I'm sorry, we only have what's there. I can, um, try to get someone for your air conditioner, though?"

"Thanks," Shawn said sunnily, and didn't protest when Lassiter dragged him away.

There was nowhere to go but the hall or outside, and Lassiter didn't even pause as he pulled Shawn out into the clear night air. It wasn't cold at all but it felt like a relief after the pressing heat inside, and Shawn straightened his shirt as Lassiter started to pace. "Something wrong, darling?"

Lassiter whirled on him. "Is this a game to you, Spencer? I thought you were here to solve a _case_ , not this - this - "

He'd taken a few warning steps forward, and Shawn had taken a few steps back. "Hey," Shawn said, quieter, "Lassie - "

"You - " Lassiter made a strangled noise, stepped forward and kissed him.

Shawn's mind went blank. He only managed to come back to himself when Lassiter started pulling away, because no - Shawn grabbed at his tie, pulled him closer, kissed him for all he was worth. Lassiter kissed like a dream, hard and intense until all Shawn could think about was the heat of his mouth, his fingers digging into his hips, the ache of wanting - needing more.

But it was, admittedly, not the best time. "Uh," Shawn said, easing off, "I mean, not that I wouldn't love to continue this and take it back to our room, but..."

Lassiter's eyebrow ticked up. "But?"

"But," Shawn said, his mind spinning off-track every time he looked at Lassiter's mouth; he'd thought about it, but now that he knew exactly what it was like - "but," Shawn managed, dragging his thoughts back, "I am here to solve a case."

Lassiter's cheeks were a faint pink. Shawn stared in fascination. "There's actually a case here?"

"Of course there's a case!" Shawn waved his hands. "Wait, you thought - wow, Lassie, I didn't realise you were such a sure thing I could just give you a booty call - "

"Shut your mouth, Spencer," Lassiter said, and Shawn felt himself smile despite himself as he opened his mouth and Lassiter pinned him with a glare. "Don't say it. But what - sabotage in some baking competition? How is that even remotely believable?"

"Don't look at me, I'm just the messenger," Shawn said.

Lassiter scrubbed a hand over his face and swore under his breath. "It's illegal to record with an expectation of privacy," he said, "but if I can't pin it on someone..."

"Yeah," Shawn said, "I figured. But hey, I know where our producer's staying, and your car's right here - how do you feel about a midnight jaunt?" He dangled Lassiter's swiped keys enticingly.

"It's not midnight," Lassiter said, but when Shawn pouted at him his expression relaxed, almost enough to call a smile. He grabbed his keys out of Shawn's hand and went for his car, and Shawn settled in the passenger seat as Lassiter took the wheel.

They'd come in this way, two hours of Shawn trying to fiddle with the radio when Lassiter wasn't paying attention and putting his feet up on the dash. There were still some snacks Shawn had smuggled into the glovebox, but when he rifled through it it was all cheese-fragmented Doritos and tiny packets of Skittles gone sticky in the heat.

Shawn glanced at Lassiter sidelong. "You know," he said, as they pulled out to the road, "I never knew you had it in you. And here I had a ten-step plan to seduce you."

"You couldn't make a plan if your life depended on it," Lassiter grumbled, his ears red, and Shawn laughed.

"There was a plan once upon a time," he said, "though I was just going to skip to handcuffing myself naked to your bed and hiding the key."

"What!?" Lassiter stared at him as Shawn waggled his eyebrows. "You - "

Lassiter cut himself off, cursing as they hit the side of the road and pulling them straight again. Shawn said, reflectively, "I'm sensing that I should do it anyway. Don't worry, Lassie, I'm a sure thing too."

Lassiter muttered something, probably insulting, but Shawn couldn't stop smiling as he watched the road.

 

The producer of the show was an older man, grey-haired and reeking of money, _call me Bill_. He'd stepped into the Psych office like he'd never been anywhere like it, had given Shawn, fanning himself ineffectually on the couch, an odd look that barely shifted into friendliness as Gus tried to mediate.

He was being threatened, or so he said; letters decrying his new TV show in the mail, then left at the competition site. No, they weren't filming yet, this was only the preliminary stage. No, there was no way to meet the crew and contestants when the next bake-off was tomorrow, unless...

Shawn ran his tongue along his teeth, peering into the windowed light. The producer's billing address on the hotel's file had led them here, where he was having some heated conversation with a dark-haired woman, bright against the dull street lights.

"I don't see how this will help us," Lassiter muttered, crouched beside Shawn behind some convenient bushes. Shawn plucked a leaf from his hair.

"I need to get vibrations from them," Shawn said, and wiggled his fingers as he squinted at the pair. The woman looked - almost familiar, he thought, though he couldn't tell without seeing her face; his memory jumped over Chuck Berry and Uma Therman, and it came to him just as Bill stepped away and she looked toward them, into the garden.

Lassiter said, doubtfully, "Vibrations?" as Shawn stilled and reached for his phone.

"Something," Shawn said, frowning. "I think I know who she is."

Shawn called Gus on the way back, said, "Hey, you know Melissa? Pulp Fiction?"

"Shawn, it's literally midnight," Gus said, and sighed. "Last name?"

"I don't think I knew it. You've friended her on Facebook or something, right?"

"Melissa, Melissa..." Shawn could hear Gus rattling around in the background; if he closed his eyes he could picture him, switching on his laptop as he clambered out of bed, complaining about the mobile site, " - completely useless," Gus said, and Shawn hummed in absent agreement. "Melissa - oh, the one with the John Travolta thing? Weirdly intense?"

"The one with the John Travolta thing," Shawn agreed. "What's she been up to lately?"

"Looks like she's really invested in rationalism..." Gus paused. "She's married to that guy who came to Psych. Shawn, you said that trip was for 'rest and relaxation', I thought we agreed that guy was way too shady - "

"Oh, look at that," Shawn said quickly, "sorry, Gus, I really need to go."

He hung up and silenced his phone when Gus immediately called back. "It could be a coincidence," Shawn said, considering. 

Lassiter pulled to a stop in front of the hotel and gave him a pointed look. "I don't believe in coincidence."

Shawn sighed, leant forward and kissed him, chaste and quick. His phone buzzed in his pocket, this time a text from Gus when he checked: _Shawn, please tell me you're not there alone._

Shawn wrote back _nope, got a cop w me dw_ and looked out at Lassiter, opening the passenger door. "What a gentleman," Shawn said, teasing, and Lassiter's expression softened as Shawn took his hand, helping himself out. "Thanks."

"So you think this woman is involved?"

"I don't know what I think," Shawn said.

"You're not going to call on the spirits or something?" Lassiter said wryly, and Shawn peered at him for a moment, thoughtful.

"The spirits are just as muddled as I am. Sometimes they're like that," Shawn stage-whispered, like it was a secret. "Just not knowing things that I don't know. How dare they."

"You," Lassiter said, but Shawn thought under the irritation in his voice he could hear something that might be fondness. "Cut the psychic bullshit, Spencer."

"What, we're not at first names yet? Come on, Lassie, it's Shawn."

"Shawn," Lassiter said, deliberately slow, and the way he said it sent a thrill up Shawn's spine. "I will find out your little secret."

Shawn studied him, then smiled. "Maybe," he said, "but don't forget I totally found yours first. Hey, you're fine for tomorrow, right?"

"Tomorrow?"

"It's why we're here! The competition preliminaries. Don't worry, I'm sensing you'll do just fine."

Lassiter sighed.

The air-conditioner in their room was working a little better than it had been earlier, a low rumble of sound and a thin trickle of cool air, though the room was still unbearably warm. Shawn looked around the tiny bathroom for cameras before dragging Lassiter in to kiss him again, where Lassiter pressed him up against the tiny sink and Shawn banged his head against the mirror and laughed. Lassiter winced and dropped his mouth to the curve of Shawn's neck. "This isn't working."

"It isn't," Shawn said, but he kissed him again anyway, hooking his fingers into the unbuttoned collar of Lassiter's shirt. "But I kind of like this bad idea."

"You're a bad idea," Lassiter said, but he kissed Shawn again, hot and demanding, until Shawn really didn't care at all.

 

The next day dawned sunny and warm. Shawn met the other participants over breakfast, complaining about the place; "It's not the worst," one woman said, flushed and harried, "but I can't imagine it'll be good for the cakes."

Others were less circumspect, flicking through recipe books or talking to their partners in careful, hushed voices that muted when Shawn came around. He met a man smoking a cigarette down to filter the outside, scowling out at the sun. "I got flown all the way down from Chicago for this," he said, "but if this is their budget - who the hell wants to be here?"

"But the prize," Shawn said, and the man shook his head, tossing the butt on the ground and grinding it under his heel.

"A chance at a hundred thousand isn't enough for this."

By the time they left for the test it was hot again, enough that the shade of the competition tent was an absolute relief. Shawn fanned himself with a hotel brochure and couldn't help watching as Lassiter kept adjusting his tie, loosening it the tiniest bit every time.

The place was set up like a TV set, a line of benches with ovens and stovetops and sinks. There were a dozen cameras around the stage, mostly unmanned, and as Lassiter tied an apron around his waist Shawn hopped up onto the bench and kicked his legs, watching the rest of the contestants.

Most were the people Shawn had seen earlier in the hotel, but there was one young man Shawn hadn't seen at all before. He was college-aged and nervous, glancing around almost furtively as he tapped his fingers on the bench, and then -

 _Oh,_ Shawn thought, _that's interesting_ , because it was Melissa who hurried to his side.

Bill the producer came from a side-tent that Shawn was itching to get into a deliberate few seconds later, and clapped his hands as he explained their task. Shawn tuned him out as he saw Melissa look around and stare at him, a frown on her face, and glanced away to one of the two cameramen, also occasionally looking at him with a strange expression on his face.

When the timer started Shawn watched Lassiter for a while; putting together flour, sugar, eggs. There was a furrow of concentration between his eyebrows and he said, "Baking is _precision_ work, Spencer," when Shawn offered to help, then told him to watch a pot filled with raspberries on the stove.

Shawn rather wanted to peel the apron off him, thought of Lassiter in his own apartment, the smell of bread in the air. He plucked out a raspberry and ate it as he glanced over at Melissa and her partner, the awkward way he quickly got out of her path every time she moved. She'd stopped looking over quite as much, engrossed in her own baking, just as everyone else was. It was already obvious which pairs doing well and which weren't, the people who were mixing and stirring and pouring with an easy efficiency and those who had started to fall apart with the stress. Some were like him and Lassiter - one partner doing most of the work while the other just watched things, but there were some who worked almost perfectly in-sync, as an actual team.

Something hissed next to him, and Shawn yelped and jumped off the bench to see the pot he was supposed to be watching start to smoke. He reached for the handle, nearly burnt his fingers off, and after securing an oven mitt finally managed to pull the pot, now blackened and bubbling, from the heat. Shawn immediately dumped it in the sink and turned on the tap, the rush of cold water sending a cloud of steam rushing up that he only just managed to dodge.

Wincing, Shawn turned around to see Lassiter putting an identical pot back on the stovetop. "Get out of here," Lassiter said, with a half-roll of his eyes, and Shawn hopped off the counter and did.

Shawn's first detour was to the cameraman, half-heartedly filming near their bench. "Hey," Shawn said, as he rounded the side, and the man started and squinted at him again.

"Do I know you?" he blurted, and then shook his head, frowning. "Or... have you been on TV?"

"Sure," Shawn said, curious. "I'm quite a star, you know. Shawn Spen-starr - no? Do you watch _Explosion Gigantesca de Romance_?"

"Chad!" the man exclaimed, eyes widening, and held out his hand, shaking Shawn's enthusiastically. "I can't believe you're still alive! And I thought I recognised that odd detective."

"It's a secret," Shawn said in a loud whisper. "And he doesn't actually like cheese."

"No," the man said, startled. "Really?"

"Really," Shawn said. "But I'm here on secret business."

"Secret postal business?"

"Secret... psychic detective business," Shawn said, a little carefully. "Actually, no, let's go with that. I want to know what you know, Mr. - "

"Rodriguez," he said. "But you can call me Jim."

"Jim," Shawn said with overdone gravitas, "you're the only person I can turn to in these dark times. Please. What do you know about everyone here?"

Jim apparently knew quite a bit, particularly about Melissa and Bill. "That kid she's with, he's a new addition," he said, "even though - well, it's against the spirit of the competition, isn't it?"

"The spirit of the competition is angry," Shawn agreed, nodding sagely. "And have you heard about the threats?"

"Bill told all of us," Jim admitted, then leant forward and said in a low voice, "that's why he wanted us here today, he said. He thought today might be the day when the competition's sabotaged, and he needed us to catch it on camera if it was. There've been death threats and everything - is there anything you can do?"

Shawn took a long look around the room, the people working with flour and sugar and cream, the smell of cake and jam rising in the air. "Yeah," he said, "I think so. But there's one more thing you could do for me..."

 

Shawn snuck back into the competition tent by pretending he was meant to be going there, and made it just as the five-minute warning was called out. He waved thanks to Jim as he passed him, swiping the baseball cap off Jim's head and putting it on himself, pulling it down with the brim over his eyes. 

"You look like an idiot," Lassiter said when Shawn peered over his shoulder to the cake he was dusting powdered sugar over, a neat fountain of white. "Why are you wearing a hat?"

"It's a cap, not a hat," Shawn said, automatically. "It doesn't count. And it's part of my cunning disguise."

"Does it have anything to do with why that man was wearing it a minute ago?" Lassiter looked over to Jim, who waved. Shawn pressed a finger to his lips and Jim nodded, miming zipping his mouth and throwing away the key.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Shawn said, and winked at Lassiter's unimpressed look. "You'll find out."

"Psychic visions on demand?"

"The spirits are always agreeable when I know who's the culprit," Shawn said loftily. "They appreciate the drama."

"You mean melodrama," Lassiter said dryly. "Will I need my gun?"

Shawn considered. "No," he said, "no one else is carrying. That guy over there has a knife in his boot, though." He nodded toward him, the man from Chicago who was smoothing the edges of his cake filling and scowling fiercely. 

"A - " Lassiter studied him, mouth twisting in a frown. "I'll watch him."

"Good," Shawn said, and pressed a quick kiss to Lassiter's cheek before he danced away, grinning slyly. Lassiter's jaw tightened, his hand twitched, and then the timer rang. "And that's my cue."

Shawn took Lassiter's cake up to the table. All of them were nearly identical, though there were tiny minor variations; cream in tiny whorls or spread flat across, jam blended smooth or with tiny seeds. Lassiter's was criminally even, like he'd used a ruler and a paintbrush to make everything come out a solid golden brown, corners precisely straight.

"And now," Bill said, clapping his hands as everyone fell quiet, "it's what you've all been waiting for - Raul Broadway himself will taste your cakes and let us know who's through!"

The dramatics were lost on the crowd, stressed and tired and silent. The cakes seemed to deflate as they stood, softening in the midday heat.

A few seconds passed, and then a minute. People started to murmur as Bill shifted on his feet, looking around, until a young man ran into the tent, had a brief whispered conversation with him, and Bill paled and started away.

He was heading in the direction of the other tent. After a moment, Melissa started after him, and the young man who was her partner glanced around before following her, until there was a slow exodus of people out of the tent. Shawn lingered behind, shared a glance with Lassiter, and then closely examined the cakes as Lassiter kept an eye out, his hand resting close to his gun.

"If they take any longer, these are going to be piles of goo," Shawn said, studying the collection of cakes. His finger itched to wipe off some liquifying cream. "They're melting."

Lassiter looked back and examined his. "Gelatin only lasts so long."

"Gelatin?" said the other man who'd stayed behind. He was the one with the knife in his boot, though he didn't look aggressive so much as bored. "That's a cheap trick."

"It was provided," Lassiter said stiffly, and Shawn raised his hands, stepping between them.

"Come on," he said, "you're arguing about this? Everyone's cake is melting."

Lassiter grimaced and the other man looked at Shawn thoughtfully. "You're not at all interested in what's going on over there?" he asked. "You're that psychic detective, aren't you? Isn't this your sort of thing to check out?"

"It's because I'm psychic," Shawn said easily, "that I know what happened already. Mr. Broadway got a threatening letter, like the ones that have been sent to this show before - almost exactly alike. Mr. Broadway," he recited, pitching his voice dramatically, closing his eyes and holding a hand out to the sky, "this will be the end. Stop this show or I will stop you."

"How did you know that," came a voice, and Shawn's eyes snapped open and he made a show of coming back to himself, shuddering as his hands fell back to his sides. The man was the celebrity chef himself, grey-haired tending to white and the same demeanor shared with the producer beside him. Everyone else was slowly filing back into the tent around them. "Did you send that letter?"

"Let me introduce myself," Shawn said with a sweep of a bow. "Shawn Spencer, psychic detective. I've actually been hired here to investigate."

"Well," said Broadway, "surely that can wait until after I test these cakes."

"I'm afraid not," Shawn said, and gasped loudly, clutching a hand to his chest. "Poison! Sabotage! No, no, you can't - "

He grabbed onto Lassiter's arm; Lassiter kept his mouth shut but his expression very loudly said Shawn had better be finished soon. Shawn reached out, pressed his lips together, and blinked hard as if he were holding back tears. "Please," he said, overwrought, "don't eat these cakes."

"Sabotage," said Broadway, and turned to Bill. "You said you'd received some letters of the type yourself."

"Well," Bill said, flustered, "yes, but - you can't simply accuse one of our contestants, Mr. Spencer. Do you have any proof of who did this?"

"Yes," Shawn said, "the spirits have spoken. It's definitely you."

He pointed directly at Melissa, whose face shifted from bemused to stunned in a moment. "I'm sorry?" she said. "Mr. Broadway, I swear to you, my cake is perfectly fine to eat - "

"Of course it is," Shawn said, and jerked his head at the man they'd been talking to earlier, the one from Chicago with the knife in his boot. "He's got the sabotaged cake. But you paid him to switch it out."

"I - what?" said Bill, looking between them. "Melissa - "

"You baked one earlier this morning," Shawn continued, undeterred. "You share a fridge, it was easy enough to hide with a little sleight-of-hand. But you didn't realise your accomplice wouldn't use gelatin in his whipped cream. He admitted so himself, just a moment ago."

"Well," said Broadway, huffing, "that should be simple enough to determine."

"But - why?" Bill said, staring at Melissa. "Why would you..."

Shawn tilted his head and met her eyes. She stared back, unmoved. "It isn't serious," Shawn said, finally. "What'd you put in, a laxative? There's a camera here, one that just happened to be close to my bench, and you stuck a few spy cameras in our hotel room, right? I'm sensing you don't believe in psychics - and you're holding a grudge."

"You're a fake, Spencer," she spat suddenly, and Shawn winced at the venom in her voice. "You've lied to everyone - to me, to your best friend, to your so-called boyfriend - "

"Whoa," Shawn said, "wait, I thought this was a success thing. You're still mad about the time I told you Gus already had a date?"

"Burton deserves better than you," she said, "He didn't have a date that night! You've kept him out of his dream school, ruined his career - "

"Melissa," Shawn said, carefully, "I'm sorry. But - Gus asked me to put you off. He just wasn't interested. And you're married now! Congratulations! And, you know, if you want to start your own TV show debunking psychics I'm pretty sure your husband wouldn't mind giving you a hand."

She stared at him, blank-faced, but her expression crumpled as Bill started toward her. "Melissa," he said, and she folded into his arms as Shawn looked away.

Broadway was studying the cakes with interest. "A laxative," he said, "and yet with this rise? Hm."

Standing beside him, Lassiter sighed. "No murder," he said, "and not even an arrest? Where's a violent crime when you need one? I packed handcuffs for nothing."

"I can think of a use for them," Shawn said, leaning into him, and Lassiter scowled at him. "Okay, no playing with police-issue gear, I've got some fuzzy ones at home, you know. What I want," he said, reflective, "is some cake. And ice cream. And air conditioning."

When he glanced back at Lassiter, he looked like he was thinking of Shawn in those handcuffs, and Shawn smiled at him, feeling warm. "Two out of three?"

"What?" Lassiter said, and Shawn reached into his back pocket, pulling out his car keys. "Oh, you meant - yes. Are we done here?"

Shawn looked around. Bill had started to apologise, already laying out their plans for a re-test with the rest of his staff, cameracrew and all. Broadway had started to engage Melissa in conversation about her cake. Everyone else looked bemused, but no one was looking in their direction, and Shawn grabbed for Lassiter's hand.

"Yeah," Shawn said, "we're done. I'm sensing you really want to - "

"You're sensing nothing," Lassiter said, and dragged him away; all the way home.


End file.
